


The Middle of the World

by jawsandbones



Series: Ficlits [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "I can't believe you've done this" sort of thing, Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 23:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Lavellan leaves Skyhold without Dorian. He doesn't come back.---Vivienne’s head turns instantly, Cullen sharply inhales. Even Cassandra can feel it, the magic gathering in air, hair raising at the back of her neck. “Don’t,” Cole pleads, “it will wear his face but it will not be him.”





	The Middle of the World

He should have been there. He could have changed things. He wasn’t there. “No,” he says, “no. _No_.” He wasn’t there. He could have changed things. He should have been there. He’s known cold before, but nothing like this. Trembling hands on his skin, fingertips tracing the lines he’s memorized time and time again, searching for the warmth he used to know. “Mahanon.” He could almost be sleeping. “Wake up.” He should have been there. He could have changed things. He didn’t get the chance to save him. He didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. He wasn’t there.

Leaning over him, brushing away the strands of hair that wisp across his face. Keeping his hand at the crown of his head, thumb brushing against his temple. Forehead touches forehead, hand over hand. Mahanon smells of iron and snow when he used to smell of wood and bark. Soil after a rainfall, dew upon leaves. Evergreen no more. Felled and chopped, burned and soon to be buried, cut down and carved away. “Mahanon,” whispering his name again and again, swords in his throat. Dorian squeezes his eyes closed, grits his jaw together. Pressing a kiss to lips that no longer kiss him back.

They’re all talking over each other, a cacophony of noise he isn’t listening to. Scratches upon the silence inside him, clashing metal of some distant battlefield. Cassandra is yelling. Cullen is shaking his head. Leliana and Josephine talk quietly to each other. Vivienne’s voice is calm but overpowering, Sera’s shrillness piercing into her composure. Varric and Blackwall say nothing. Cole is a shadow in the corner. Bull pushes open the door to that small hovel, goes to stand out in the freezing air. All of them on the edge of Skyhold, deciding how to tell the Inquisition. How to tell the Inquisition their Inquisitor is dead.

He holds his breath without realizing, feels the heart of him beat behind a tightening cage. Ribs that bear down, squeeze him tight, a weight with no equal resting upon his chest. Feet that feel sunk into the ground, unable to move, unwilling to leave his side. His hands still tremble. He can’t stop the shaking. Dorian’s eyes open but Mahanon’s are still closed, ghost and ghostly, the twilight when he knows he should be the sun. He wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, and what he would give for one more word, one more smile, the hand around his, the laughter in the dark, and oh what he would give for one more breath.

Vivienne’s head turns instantly, Cullen sharply inhales. Even Cassandra can feel it, the magic gathering in air, hair raising at the back of her neck. “Don’t,” Cole pleads, “it will wear his face but it will not be him.” Vivienne does not waste time with asking Dorian. Instead, she looks at Cullen. He is no Templar, long void of lyrium, cannot stop or silence, smite, purge or shatter. It is magic which illuminates the room, bright and uneasy, spreading from Dorian’s palms, washing over his Mahanon.

The others realize quickly. A scream to stop, a shout of outrage. Crashing into horrified silence when it is done. Glassy and glazed, dull and empty. Mahanon’s eyes are but clouded mirrors, no forest left to speak of. Sitting upright, sitting stiffly, dried blood on the bandages around his belly, a thing filled with naught but remnants of something long gone. Dorian’s hands on his cheeks, thumbs brushing over cheekbones. The tears spill down his cheeks, the hopeful smile wavers on his face. “ _Amatus_?” Cracking and breaking on his tongue. “ _Amatus_.”

A husk, hollowed and empty, an imitation made of dust and ash. His eyes do not move. He has no need for breath. There is no answer to his name, no smile on his lips, no laughter in his throat, there is only the nothing that persists. Can’t let go. Couldn’t let him go. “Mahanon.” Tremble, tremble, shake and shudder, tight around him, the burst, the break, the snap and split, rend and fracture. “Please,” Dorian begs. Only the nothing. He should have been there.

Holding him in his arms as he pulls the magic back, feels him sag, limp and lifeless, eyes closing once again. Threading a hand through his hair, the other splayed at his back, and the others do not speak. There is the silence and the choking sobs, the quiet without peace. He should have been there. He could have changed things. He wasn’t there.

**Author's Note:**

> You can always find me [ at my tumblr :) ](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/) Cheers!


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